Legends In The Making

The cold air hit Yume’s face like a physical wall as she sprinted through the dense, suffocating forest. Shadowed branches clawed at her clothes, leaving shallow scratches along her arms, but she barely felt the sting. The worn emerald necklace around her neck bounced violently against her chest with every frantic step.

“Grandpa!”

Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged. The woods seemed to stretch infinitely, but then, through the tangled canopy, a silhouette materialized beneath the dying ember light of the setting sun.

An old man stood framed against the gloom. His back was turned toward her, one hand resting heavily on his worn wooden cane.

A wave of overwhelming relief washed over her, hot and desperate.

“There you are!”

She reached out, her fingers just inches from his coat. But as she closed the distance, an unnatural stillness settled over him.

“...Grandpa?”

He didn’t answer.

Without warning, a deafening sound like fracturing glass echoed through the air. The world around them began to crack. The towering trees dissolved into sheer darkness, and the solid ground beneath her feet split into a cavernous abyss.

“Grandpa!”

He slowly began to look over his shoulder. His gentle, familiar smile hadn’t changed, even as the sky crumbled into void.

“I’m sorry, Yume.”

“No...” she pleaded, reaching out into the growing space between them.

“I couldn’t keep my promise.”

“No!”

He raised a small, intricately carved wooden box in his free hand.

“Remember...” His voice grew faint, echoing as if pulled down a long, dark tunnel. “...the basement.”

The box slipped from his fingers, tumbling into the dark. Then, everything shattered into light and sound.

Yume’s eyes snapped open.

She shot upright in bed, her chest heaving as she sucked in a cold lungful of real air. Her skin was slick with sweat.

Silence.

Only the rhythmic, rhythmic tapping of rain against the apartment window met her ears. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird as she pressed a trembling hand against her chest.

Another dream. The exact same one. Every night for an entire year.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to let out a slow, measured breath to settle her racing pulse.

“...It’s just a dream,” she whispered into the empty room. But even saying the words aloud couldn’t dull the sharp ache in her chest.

Turning her head, her gaze landed on the bedside table. A framed photograph rested there, washed in the muted gray light of the morning rain. In it, an old man smiled warmly beside a younger girl with messy black hair, both of them covered in a catastrophic dusting of flour after a completely failed attempt at baking bread.

A tiny, involuntary smile touched Yume’s lips.

“You really were terrible at cooking...”

The smile faded as quickly as it had come.

“...I miss you.”

The apartment felt unbearably quiet. Ever since Grandpa disappeared precisely one year ago, silence had become her constant, uninvited companion. The authorities had searched for weeks. The neighbors had formed search parties. She had pushed through every inch of the surrounding countryside herself.

No body. No clues. No tracks. Nothing. It was as if he had simply vanished from the fabric of the world.

Eventually, everyone else gave up and filed it away as a tragic mystery. Yume never did. Every weekend, without fail, she returned to his old house on the edge of town, hoping to discover some tiny detail she had somehow missed. Every time, she was met with empty rooms and dust.

Swinging her legs out of bed, she stood up and walked toward the small kitchen. Her movements were automatic, disciplined, and precise—the result of years spent training in gymnastics and martial arts, which had taught her to waste no motion.

She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, listening to it softly begin to whistle. Yet despite her calm, controlled posture, her mind was a whirlwind. She replayed every memory, every half-forgotten conversation, every strange, cryptic phrase Grandpa had ever uttered. There had to be an answer hidden somewhere.

One memory in particular echoed loudest in her head.

“One day...” he had told her, his eyes unusually solemn as they sat by the fireplace years ago. “...you’ll understand why you have to survive.”

Yume gripped the smooth edge of the laminate counter, her knuckles turning white.

“What did you mean...?”

No answer came. Only the steady patter of the rain outside.

Her hand drifted unconsciously up to the cool emerald necklace resting against her collarbone. Grandpa had given it to her on the very day he brought her home from the orphanage. When she had asked where such a strange, beautiful thing had come from, he had only offered a quiet smile.

“It’s yours, Yume. Always keep it with you.”

He had never offered another word about it.

Yume let out a long sigh, dropping her hand.

“I guess...” she murmured to the quiet kitchen, “...I’ll visit the house again today.”

She had spoken those exact words dozens of times before. Maybe she was chasing a ghost. Maybe she was simply refusing to accept the reality of moving on. But she didn’t care. As long as there was even the smallest, faintest thread of hope, she would keep pulling.

She poured her tea, grabbed her heavy rain jacket, and plucked the old brass key off the hook beside the front door.

The end of chapter 1